


Colours all in sight

by claysnail



Category: Kara no Kyoukai | The Garden of Sinners
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claysnail/pseuds/claysnail
Summary: The many hues in their lives are vibrant; solemn; telling. Short pieces centred on various colours, mostly about Shiki and Mikiya.





	1. Yellow, or aureolin.

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably be an ongoing piece of work and I hope to add more chapters over time. Thank you for reading, and thank you to everyone who has read and commented on my work in the past. That feedback is what encourages me to keep writing.

* * *

 

The colour is warmer when SHIKI doesn’t see it - sun-yellow, the colour of _yamabuki_.

He dreams that it is a happy colour, but in waking it stings, like squares of orange light slanted into ice-black alleyways, or gold fire through windows of a classroom where words had once burned.

When he walks, the colour wraps their body so that it numbs over time into nothing but the dried vestige of his favourite colour. But still he dreams. And in the dream the colour he wears is as beautiful as he wants it to be, and the sun sets but the warmth doesn’t, and the boy he likes smiles at him sweetly with a hand outstretched.

A happy dream.


	2. Black, or charcoal.

If there was one thing about him that Shiki simply could not wrap her mind around, it was the way he always wore the darkness of a void yet seemed to carry a sun within him. Black, always, even his socks, and the rims of his glasses. _Ridiculous,_ she thinks time and time again. _Can’t you wear a different colour for a change? Doesn’t your skin yearn for a layer of different meaning? Doesn’t the light in you want to shine through a different sky?_

But no, not a sun; not exactly. Sometimes she catches him staring out far, lost in thought, something sad hovering about his eyelashes - and so she settles on distant stars, awash in midnight blue. At times, they brighten, and at others, they fade. Of course their home would be an amalgam of all pigments. The heavy colour of life.

If _he_ was the void, she thinks it might not be so bad to be lost in it. It was a funny thought.


	3. Blue, or ultramarine.

“Is that your favourite colour?” Mikiya asks her one day.

“What?”

“Your kimono.” He lets his eyes shift carefully about her torso. It’s a stone blue, not vibrant, but silken. She’s standing by the window, water bottle in prosthetic hand, and sunlight is sifting through just right to turn a lock of her hair auburn.

He continues, “How many do you have of that colour?”

“Seven,” replies Shiki, as if it were obvious.

He snickers a little. “Weren’t you complaining about me always wearing the same kind of thing, just the other day?”

“Shut up. At least I have other colours.”

“And you wear them?”

She looks at him levelly. “I wear them. When the occasion calls for it.”

“Okay, then.”

“You’re so nosy.” She drinks deep from the bottle. Mikiya can tell she’s acting put out when she actually isn’t. “By the way, I don’t have a favourite colour.”

“Well, that blue suits you,” he says, and he means it. “The red jacket, too.”

He expects her to turn away, to ignore his words and look sullenly out the window, but she raises her eyebrows slightly and purses her lips in thought. She stares at him as if to study his face while her new arm absently swirls around the water in the bottle. Uneasy, he breaks his gaze away first.

“Actually, I think I have a favourite colour,” she says at last, slyly, “but I’m not telling you.”

“Oh, come on,” he laughs. Sweat has gathered in his palms.


	4. Pink, or rose quartz.

A cherry blossom lands on her lap. She drags her finger across a petal and its flesh clings to the edge of her nail, damaged and forgiving.

She is reminded of the scratch Shiki gave Mikiya the other day by accident: a rosy, raised line across his back, from a nick in the edge of her fingernail. Neither had really noticed.

Opening her eyes wide, she fancies she can see the lines of death for each cell, each compartment, each busy molecule of the flimsy petals in her palm. There, see, are the troughs and cavities where the cells had died, releasing their contents. Everything is made of too much; it’s pointless. She sighs in the way that nothingness would sigh, if it could. She sighs and wonders if he would ever harm this body, nick its skin to draw a bright line - wonders if anyone would notice. The cells regenerate before her eyes.

See, it is pointless. She lets the blossom fall to the ground, folds her hands upon the pale pink silk of her lap, and closes her eyes to look inwards once again.


	5. Grey, or silver fog.

It’s 7 AM on a Sunday, and it’s raining outside.

  
Shiki sits up in the still, grey space, blankets warm and heavy about her, head full of cotton. Her mouth is dry so she reaches behind her, stretches and stretches, for the bottle of water that sits on a shelf. She drinks; the rain patters down softly. Drowsy, calm, her eyelids sink and she could easily fall asleep again, but Mikiya stirs and groans beside her.

  
“Are you going to get up now?” he mumbles, voice raspy and gaze misted with sleep. The grey light shimmering through the curtains reflects in his eye as he blinks. One of his arms extends outside of the blankets; it rests graceful, sleeved in black, shadows molding the bones of his knuckles.

  
“No, it’s too early,” she replies. She looks down at his face, his gentle presence, and feels many lovely, monstrous urges: she wants to talk with him, touch him, embrace him, be scolded by him, sting him, kiss him, please him, make him smile, make him gasp and writhe. And yes, there is the smallest desire to kill him - but that’s just how it is, and it does not disturb her. This is all the shape of her tenderness.

  
She stares at his hand, fancies reaching out for it and holding it, but simply lays herself back down and turns to face him. He’s still half asleep, and she probably is, too, but then _he_ searches for her hand - the one that wielded in the past - and caresses it, lifting himself up on his elbows.

  
He shifts himself closer under the blankets, rests his forehead against hers, says “Shiki, is this okay?” and nudges his warm hips against hers.

  
Soft sparks flare through her fingers and the base of her stomach. She nods, makes a sound of approval and wraps her legs around him so that they are aligned. They remain fully clothed. The rain still falls quietly and the sounds of the outside world tiptoe through the room: a car in the distance, driving through puddles, and the wet rustle of leaves and falling droplets. Muddled with sleep, they kiss clumsily, bumping teeth and noses and sharing slow breaths. All they see are the grey walls, the grey blankets and clothes, the grey-rose hues of skin and the dark shimmer of hair, all imbued in the softness that comes with clouds and drizzle. They rock back and forth, dropping in and out of shallow almost-sleep and dream-like waking, lost in their shared warmth and pleasure. Mikiya’s lashes brush against her cheeks. His shifting weight is comforting, and he is pressing at her just right.

  
“Mikiya, it feels good,” breathes Shiki, before she can catch herself, and blushes.

  
“Mm…” Heat flows down his spine with her words. “It does.”

  
The rain brings with it memories and a tranquil air dappled with uneasiness and devotion. Tears had once fallen among raindrops under dark bamboo. Rain had often streaked the hospital windows when she had woken with piercing loneliness. She strokes his cheek and his scar, waits for their eyes to meet. When they do - dark blue to brown - they are a little more awake, and feeling a little more needy. But their bodies are still so pliant and dazed; they try to kiss again, and miss, Mikiya’s lips sliding against her nose.

  
“Oh,” he says. He chuckles, and she does too, just a little. Her dark eyes stare shamelessly at him, observing the embarrassing expressions he must be wearing when she grinds against him with more force, and he doesn’t mind; her curiosity is like an honour. Shiki is still fascinated by the sight of him like this, contact with him like this, and what it makes her feel. In a warm, grey sea of quiet, their heartbeats are anchors - the shuddering proof of life. And in her chest, it thunders as if to tell her, _this is real_.

  
They search for a little more pressure, a little more means to bring them to a glowing pinnacle - and she plays that clever hand of mouthing at his neck, enjoying the quiet sounds he makes in response. Under her hands and under fabric move the muscles of his back and shoulders and chest. She closes her eyes, lets all these sensations wash over her, and turns her head to the side with a sigh - and catching the moment through the grey haze, Mikiya admires her profile and its blade-like beauty and strength. When she turns her head back, the sight hurts for some reason. Maybe it’s the way she lies relaxed with eyes closed and dark hair fanned about her face - hair she has chosen to lengthen a little more, recently. It makes a lump rise in his throat. He thinks briefly of weeks after weeks of painful stillness in her hospital room; the baseless hopes he clung to, paired with smothered despair. The shell of her on the bed and the contrast of her hair against white fabric. Something far in the past, yet still too close. He swallows and focuses on her warmth and continued breath, stroking her cheek and the nape of her neck, avoiding the faint scars on her throat where a beast had once bit her.

  
Usually, Shiki would think this is horribly awkward; a degree of intimacy and vulnerability that should be disgusting to her. Strange how it isn’t. She blames the rain and its sheltering gloom. There had been another time like that, hadn’t there? When the rain’s cast had let her speak her heart, let her smile and be safe in her vulnerability in front of him. Another memory.

  
“It’s raining, so…” she manages to say, as if she needs to explain.

  
Mikiya looks down at her; she is smiling with a rare softness. He squeezes her hand, says, “Yeah, it’s the same kind of rain. Like then.”

  
And his gaze is so gentle, she knows that he is reminded of it, too - that time by the broken bridge. Her delicate confessions; his silly, eternal promise. A time when they were both so alone. Her heart flutters and they hold each other close. Ah, she’s being silly; of course she is safe in front of him.

  
Languidly, barely changing their pace, they move together with slow, long breaths. Sleep is still near under the surface, but for now they rock back and forth above it with building force. When he finally gasps her name and whines, pulsing quietly against her, she lets herself go in turn, and it is nothing remarkable; simply another moment shared between them. As they catch their breaths chest-to-chest, Mikiya showers her face with gentle, chaste kisses, and the boyish innocence of it hurts for some reason. They clean themselves up, and sink back under the blankets weak-limbed, sleep overtaking them again quickly for another good two hours. Perhaps he whispers some phrase of love to her, but only the pattering rain knows of it. And when they wake, the rain has let up, its soft greyness replaced by sunlight that turns all droplets to shimmering jewels.


	6. Red, or crimson.

The night air carries the chilled smell of wet bamboo through the shutters. The room is dark but the colour glows before him.

_The red one_ , thinks SHIKI, and wills himself not to cry. Wasn’t crying the sort of thing normal people did in this kind of situation? He touches the crimson cloth, he touches the cold knife, and as quickly as the bitter tears had swelled, they disappear. It could rain and rain but nothing could change. He dresses quickly; or she dresses quickly? It doesn’t matter. The obi is tightened, a rush of sickening excitement stitched with grief and terror fills him, and his vision sharpens.

It had to be the red one, and it had to be _him_.

Later, the tears swell once more and they fall towards the sky. The world has become soundless, their body relaxes in the air, and it is too late: too late for last words, too late for the sweet, foolish boy to catch him, too late for the driver to stop. But this is SHIKI’s fortune. This is how it had to be, and that brings him peace. The blinding light from his left illuminates his fluttering sleeves bright crimson, and he hopes for their forgiveness and their happiness as his farewell.

A sacrifice - and he rests easy.


	7. White, or moonstone.

1999\. It snows quite heavily for the first time that year, and Shiki sleeps like driftwood through it. Occasionally, her lethargy becomes uncontrollable; this was one such time. She dreams of a golden sky, distant lights, and a pale softness that is both comforting and something to be wary of. Perhaps there is a black umbrella somewhere in the dream, but that detail disappears quickly.

Mikiya lets her sleep until the next afternoon, busying himself with small tasks in her apartment and quietly preparing rehydration and nourishment. _Is this hibernation?_ he jokes to himself, but this isn’t really a joke at all. He finds himself glancing over at her sleeping form to make sure her chest still rises and falls, and the way she sometimes tosses and turns reassures him. To distract himself, he becomes lost in his thoughts of the long conversation from the previous evening in the snow, letting the experience stain into his very being in silence, so that it is no longer a distinct memory.

Shiki wakes, and rebounds to her usual self quickly. It has stopped snowing and the world outside is blanketed white and smothered; she admits it is beautiful. The tea Mikiya has prepared for her is warm and strong, and as she sips, she glances up to see that his attention is elsewhere, far out in the snow beyond the window. He is quiet. Later, she would reflect on this and decide he was being unusually contained, repressed, misaligned - as if he was fighting to not rush over and embrace her.

“Mikiya,” she says, to prod him, and he seems to snap back into place.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

“…We should go outside.”

“Uh, what?”

He smiles. “We should go and play in the snow.”

“Are you serious?”

There is a startling sparkle in his eye. “Oh, yes. It will rehabilitate you.”

Oddly enough, she finds herself agreeing to the proposition. Before she knows it, they are bundled up and stepping outside into the cold, and she regrets it - almost. The chill seeps quickly through her red jacket and she pulls a weighty scarf up to her nose. But Mikiya seems so jumpy, and is fixing so much of his attention on her, that her curiosity gets the better of her. _Let’s see then,_ she thinks, _let’s see what this “playing in the snow” will be like._

“There’s so much,” he says, and lets his boots sink one after another into the snow with a satisfying scrunch. All is muted and still, shadows warm blue, some streetlights glowing orange already as the sun turns the snow a golden cream. Shiki stands motionless, dazzled by the sight despite herself, and Mikiya in his black coat waits with a gloved hand outstretched.

It’s a familiar scene, somehow, and she doesn’t like the look on his face.

She ignores his hand and steps forward - and stumbles like an idiot. He catches her, steadying her at her arm and her waist, murmuring “Careful,” close above her - and she is surprised by his solidity and the sensation of his hands briefly upon her. But the moment passes and she shies away, embarrassed. How can something like this still affect her? And Mikiya begins to walk as if nothing happened, saying, “Let’s go,” and that in turn makes her frown.

He walks slightly in front of her, still a little unstable from his injury, but much improved compared to the last time they walked together. It is a mystery that takes her attention for but a moment, and fades quickly into the assumption that he has recovered without her noticing. His gloved hand swings in tantalizing reach with each step, but she doesn’t take it, digging her own hands as far as they can go in her pockets. The dark black of his figure - his hair, his back, his arms - is a persistent shape in her vision, so crisp against their pallid surroundings.

_He’s close and feels far,_ she thinks uneasily; like he has discovered a solemn truth and is still coming to terms with it by himself. But the sparkling snow is pretty, crunching softly beneath her, and it calms her mind and her heart. It really is so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

“Shiki, are you cold?” The usual sort of question.

“I’m good. Where are we going?”

“Hm. I don’t know…”

The world is golden, powder blue, silvered ivory. She shivers, not from the cold, but from its soft, stifled, agitating beauty. They reach an open, empty parking lot between buildings, surrounded on one side by dark trees embellished in white along their branches. The sinking sun crawls through the spaces, casting long shadows. The snow covering the parking lot is untouched; not a single footprint blemishes its smooth surface. Shiki pauses, but Mikiya begins to wander into it, leaving behind a trail of uneven depressions.

“Shiki, we could build a snowman,” he calls from the middle.

She grimaces. “No way.”

“Okay, how about a snowball fight?”

“That’s… a little better, but…” She shakes her head. “What is up with you, honestly…”

Yet her feet lead her into the lot, crunching step after slow crunching step, because his figure is too lonely in the open space. He smiles, bends down, scoops the cold powder into his gloved hands, and packs it together with the gentleness she expects from him. She, too, bends down and grabs a handful of snow, compressing it without bothering to form a sphere.

Mikiya throws the snowball at her, and utterly misses.

“I didn’t even _think_ about dodging that,” says Shiki. She flings her lightly-packed chunk of snow and it breaks upon his arm before he can step to the side.

He laughs. “Let me try again.”

Another arc that doesn’t come close - but she pretends to duck away, hands in her pockets. A couple more throws, back and forth, and he keeps missing.

“Come on, are you being serious?”

He looks away and laughs again, sheepishly. “Well… Not much depth perception.”

In response, the pain in her ribs is sharp, nearly visceral. But she has already thrown another snowball at him, and it lands square on his chest, a white blossom on his black coat. He stands motionless and smiles at her, in that sad way she doesn’t like to see.

“I guess this is no fun for you, Shiki. Sorry.”

“…Nah. It’s not that.” She looks to the side, narrows her eyes. “But my hands are damn cold now, so I’ve had enough.”

“Ah. All right.” His voice is soft, suddenly frail. They each know they have spoken and not spoken for the other’s sake. The silence is delicate until he steps forward unsteadily and reaches for her hands.

Shiki starts. “What -“

“Well, you said your hands were cold,” says Mikiya. “And - you know - I have gloves on, and you don’t.” A stupid excuse that doesn’t make much sense. He clasps her hand on either side of her, and she thinks they might be trembling; yet another mystery for her, because they have held hands many times before.

“Shiki, are you happy right now?” he asks suddenly, and she is taken aback.

“Something’s very wrong with you today, Mikiya.”

He laughs again and doesn’t meet her eyes. “You might be right.” His hands squeezing hers are warm through the gloves and his nose is quite pink. They are standing so close that they could simply reach out and wrap their arms around each other if they wanted to. Their breaths fog the air between them. She desperately hopes no one is looking.

“I don’t know why, but I missed you,” he says. Now his gaze lingers, as if to take in her features, and his eye shimmers behind his glasses.

She wrinkles her nose. “Uh, did you have a weird dream or something?”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“That’s real vague.”

“Yeah.” He closes his eye and rests his forehead on hers - a rare gesture - and she receives it wordlessly, feeling warmer and warmer from her ears to her fingers. A surprisingly pleasant sensation.

A moment passes, and it is as if Mikiya snaps back into place once again.

“Let’s head back for a hot drink,” he suggests, pulling away. He doesn’t look as sad anymore, so she is somewhat relieved.

For once, they walk back hand in hand. They leave behind the field of snow, once pristine, now tumbled and pockmarked for someone to find and muse over. The shadows deepen, the sun fades away, lamplights glow over snowy banks and muffled boughs, and he strides warm and solid beside her.

“I guess I am,” she mutters to herself. Mikiya gives no indication that he heard her, but she later watches his sleeping countenance, utterly relaxed and beautifully calm, as if he was slumbering deeply at long last in a soft white cloud.


End file.
